


Let's Hunt

by Aondeug



Category: Chronicles of the Kencyrath - P. C. Hodgell
Genre: F/M, Gen, Star Wars AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: Mandalorians are a bellicose people by nature, so it is of no surprise that a Mando's first hunt is quite the event. Jame's first time in the field with her father has come at last. (Star Wars AU)





	

That morning Jame woke up to an empty home. With the exception of Jorin, of course. The blind strill was useless in a fight and he mostly served to sleep on Jame’s face and demand her attention. Attention he did not get as she pushed him off her chest and as she sat down to have breakfast. It was leftover tiingilar. He complained of this loudly as was his wont, but he would have to wait. Jame had to force herself to remember that food was essential to living.

 

A lack of her father in the home could mean a number of things. She mulled the possibilities over as she swallowed bite after bite of still cold but fiendishly spicy casserole. The most likely option was that he was off searching for work. Life as a two person Mandalorian clan meant constant travel in search of bounties. That or taking up mercenary work, which was no longer Tir’buir’s style. That hutt Gerridon had soured him to that line of work heavily, and it was hard to raise a daughter when off fighting wars for a crime lord.

 

Jorin plopped his floppy face onto her lap, drooling away. She frowned and set down the spoonful of food. “Really, striil’ika? I’m going to have no clean clothes if you keep this up,” she said while scratching at the scruff of his neck: strill saliva was thick and it got everywhere. He grumbled with satisfaction as he nuzzled up against her hand. A cute, precious creature he was but patently ridiculous, and helplessly messy. At least she’d had the sense not to change before eating. Still had to eat though, so she pushed his head off her lap with a curt, “Now be a bit patient, you. You’ll get more after I make sure I don’t die.”

 

Don’t die from either forgetting to eat or Tir’buir’s chiding about her habits. She could hear the complaint now in her head. “A person can’t live off sheer will alone, verd’ika. It’s time you learned to eat. It’s only been thirteen years now.” Thirteen. Thirteen… No, fourteen now. Fourteen standard galactic years and it hit her. She’d forgotten the day and with it another possibility for her father’s absence: it was her birthday.

 

Fourteen at least, a woman proper. So to speak. Finally old enough to hunt was the point, and though she was so often unshakeable she couldn’t deny a certain giddiness at the thought. She lived for the bajur, those vital life lessons from her father. Sparring with him, learning her way around a whipcord thrower, assembling blasters...All of it except the eating portion, which she continued to force herself to do now. She lived for more than just the lessons though, but for the possibility of their application. Running from hutt scoundrels, escaping the prying eyes of worried jedi, blaster always firmly at hand. She’d not been allowed on a hunt though, not yet. Her profuse complaining aside she was always brushed off with “Wait a few more years, Jaym’ika. Give yourself time to grow into your boots.” She’d then grumble like a child denied a toy. 

 

She finished up her meal and stood. The dishes were discarded in the sink and Jorin was, to his disappointment, not picked up. He barked and mewled loudly as he padded after her needily. Barking or no she ignored him to dress, to prepare for the day that had been so long awaited. She hoped anyway. 

 

Dressing did not take her long. Boots on, blaster holstered, and plates on under her robes she waited. And waited. Jorin finally got the attention he so craved through no choice of her own. Adored the strill she might, she was far too excited for the possibility of finally, finally getting to go on a hunt. The return of her father was awaited eagerly. Painfully. Waited for and waited for as she cuddled the floppy, six-legged hunting animal as he mewled and murmured happily. After a point he curled up on top of her, head awkwardly hanging over her shoulder: he was still convinced, as always, that he was a lap pitten, the silly boy. Hours passed this way and Jame had given up. She flung herself down on the floor, lying in defeat with Jorin taking his rightful place on her chest. Who had known a birthday could be so frustrating.

 

A morbid thought ran through her mind: her father might have finally been caught by Gerridon’s men. Such thoughts came to her often, though they rarely distressed her like they would have her brother. Thinking it over some, she set the worry aside. She knew when Tir’buir ran into trouble. Always. It was that “Force sensitivity” he’d tried his damnedest to teach her of. The one that made her brother run in fear of himself. She’d know if Gerridon had gotten to her father. Hell, she even knew that her brother was still alive and well, for a given value of “well”.

 

Then it was there. That telltale feel of her father. A pit of bright white light surrounded by a fierce swirl of darkness, deep and warm. She pushed Jorin forcefully off, struggling to pry his claws out of her clothes. Useless in a fight or no, he was hard to brush off when need be. She did manage to get the complaining strill off though and excited she stood quickly. He barked with great displeasure and took a thick paw and swiped at her leg as she ran off to the door. Claws hooked themselves in the leather of her boot. And with the claws came a distinct weight that threw her off. One that she should have expected but didn’t account for at all, so excited was she about her father’s return. And so down Jame went, face first and into the floor with a cry. Jorin gave a triumphant grunt.

 

The door opened and in her father stormed, blaster at the ready. She pushed herself up, propping herself on her forearm as she kicked at Jorin. At last he was here and here she was on the floor covered in strill spit. He was home though, home at last and laughing as he lowered the blaster. “Here thought I was coming home to a warrior,” he said fondly, “Little did I know I was thinking of the wrong person entirely. Always knew that strill had something going for him other than that stink.”

 

“Jorin’s just being a brat, Tir’buir,” she said as she pulled herself up to her feet, “He still couldn't hunt a mouse if we killed it for him and set it in front of him.”

 

Grinning her father responded, “Oh, don’t be so hard on him. He’d make a good racket about it, at least.”

 

“Only because he’s more successful than b’Gerridon gehut’uune at tripping me,” she said while frowning at the strill. She couldn’t stay mad at him truly. Not as he innocently nuzzled up to her leg. Darling, friendly striil’ika. Now if only he wasn’t so  intent on trying to kill her by accident.

 

It was hard to remain irritated too when her father said, “Managed to find work while I was out. At last. You’d think the people were going pacifist on me with how it’s been.” He walked past her to the conservator and pulled out a pitcher of milk. She watched him intently and he knew. She knew he knew because he laughed as he poured out a glass of the sweet, blue fluid. “Wondering when I’ll be off, are you?” he asked jokingly.

 

The joke flew over her head entirely as they often did. She was better at it with her father typically, but her sheer anticipation had killed her ability to pick through his sarcasm. Staring at him hard she bluntly said, “You forgot.” Short, simple, serious. Jame.

 

His eyes widened and he choked on his milk. Blue fluid getting in his beard. Coughing a bit he collected himself, hastily correcting, “No, no the Manda no. I’m definitely not leaving alone, ner verd’ika.” Jame’s gaze softened some and she felt more than a bit dumb. His addition of “Ner verd, rather,” softened the blow though. Not just a little a warrior, but a warrior itself. Leaning against the counter he asked, “Who’s ready for a hunt then?”

 

“Yes!” she shouted. That wasn’t even the proper way to answer that question but who cared. They were going hunting. The two of them were going hunting.

 

\--

 

She leaned back in the booth and continued to look about the cantina. Dimly lit, filled with smoke and the sounds of music. A host of people; wookies, humans or otherwise, sitting about drinking or watching the twi'lek dancing girls. A kid her age was thankfully ignored in this environment. Ignored and also having the benefit of being able to look about without catching suspicion. A man at a table across from her scoffed and complained about damned kids. Yes. Just a stupid kid come into the cantina for the first time. She sipped at the drink she had gotten for extra measure. It was awful and bitter, and pretending to be normal was tough. But she seemed to be doing well for the moment. No one seemed to suspect anything more about her save that she had stolen her parents credits and run off, with them none the wiser.

 

The job she was here for was fairly standard from what she knew. A man named Danos Krillet hadn’t been paying his travel fees lately. The client working on behalf of the local hutt family wanted either the money or Krillet’s corpse. Oddly magnanimous for a hutt, but he was still a hutt and so he was paying a sum greater than the fees he wanted. All for a corpse and his massaged ego.

 

A problem had surfaced though, one that necessitated Jame’s current stakeout. Danos was a paranoid fellow, though not without reason. Worried about the hit he knew was coming for him he’d hired a Mandalorian body guard a few months back. A highly successful one it seemed, given that the bounty had remained unclaimed. Till today anyway. Jame and her father would handle this and get that petty hutt his oh so precious corpse. Or the money, but the corpse was more likely honestly. A man that hires a Mando to dodge bounty hunters isn’t going to pay.

 

Her job in this hunt was simple enough. She had headed out an hour before her father’s meeting that he had scheduled with Danos. She’d scouted the town outside the establishment for around forty standard minutes. Both to keep suspicion off her and to get an idea of possible escape roots the mark might take. The next twenty-five had been spent in the cantina proper scoping out the joint. Once her father arrived she’d wait for his signal if it came. And if it did Danos would get a blaster bolt through his skull from the innocuous child across the room. If not then Krillet would leave alive with a lighter wallet. She doubted he would pay though. He probably wasn’t even paying his bodyguard, an arrangement that could only last so long with Danos still alive.

 

On schedule came the wiry figure that she recognized from the holovid her father showed earlier in the kitchen: Danos Krillet. Behind him stomped a man in full beskar’gam. Colored grey. Sad thought, that. She briefly wondered who he lost and then why he was bothering to guard someone like Danos at all. Money, she supposed. Still, Danos seemed about as honorable as the slugs he wasn’t paying. You could tell by the way he slinked about and how he sat there shaking visibly in a panic. If he had any honor to his name, he’d nothing to fear. Or rather everything to fear, but he’d be able to face it with a clear head and steady arm.

 

Shortly after her father walked in, also clad in his beskar’gam. Colored black and oh so threatening to the aruetiise, the foreigners. He stalked off to Danos’ table, the confident face of justice as always. Almost like a god he seemed. The very pinnacle of honor. All that Danos very, very much wasn’t. Cyare’buir, she felt a pride in having him as a father. He sat down calmly and began a chat with the jumpy Danos. She couldn’t hear the proceedings over the din of the cantina, but she assumed her father had it under wraps. He’d be firm and unyielding, but merciful in his fierceness. Everyone got a chance before a certain line. A line named Gerridon and his men. Everyone else got the chance though and Danos was getting it.

 

The talk went on for a few minute with no sign of her father raising his hand for a second drink. No sign for her to budge yet. Not from her father. What there was though was a man in a booth further back in the cantina. One across from her father who was reaching into his coat around whom she felt there to be a storm of black clouds. She’d only had a few seconds to react and react she did. Without a thought. He could be after someone else, or perhaps not here to kill at all but Jame never thought. She acted.

 

And so she shot the man.

 

Her aim had been true and he fell to the ground, smoke pearling from his skull. Danos screeched. Many did, though the bartender did not. He swore. This happened often apparently. The man across her from, the one who had complained about this green child was scurrying away. He knocked over his drink in his panic. Others followed him and others still hid under tables or sat in sheer terror. Danos scampered off too while his supposedly Mandalorian bodyguard stood around in shock. Good. That meant she hit the right man.

 

What wasn’t good was Danos scrambling away. Her father ended his escape quickly enough by grabbing the hood of his cloak. The man fell on his ass and Tir’buir pressed his foot down on his chest. Hard enough to make Danos groan in pain. Her father pulled out his blaster and held it at the fake in beskar’gam. With his other hand he pulled out the pocket holoprojector he used for work. With a click Danos’ face was open for all to see and with it, the full text of his bounty. “Bounty hunter business,” he said loudly, clearly, “Danos Krillet here has a price on his head making this a legal assassination. We’ll be on our way soon enough, don’t worry.” The cantina patrons did not take his words well, still not resting easy. They rested though, keeping out of his way. Even the bartender stood aside, though he glared at her father with annoyance.

 

The figure in beskar’gam had still yet to move. Jame watched eagerly as this. Would he try to attack? Would he do nothing? Would he run? She was ready to jump at him if need be. She didn’t seem to need to as the man did nothing. Said nothing either. Fed up with his antics her father finally said, “Get that armor off and back to whoever owns it. Now” The man continued to stand in horror. Her father fired a bolt at the man’s chest, hitting square on the kal side breastplate. The plate took it, of course, and a black smudge rested directly over the man’s heart. It was beskar after all, truly beskar. “Next shot will be at the flight suit. Now kindly get out of my sight.” At last the fake in Mandalorian iron hurried off. He threw the helmet at the dead man in the booth, and struggled to tear the plates from his flight suit.

 

Satisfied Tir’buir turned back to look down on the mark. “You’ve one last chance, Krillet. Are you able to pay or no?” he said coldly. Danos squirmed and sputtered apologies. He could not. The blaster went off and Danos at last lay still. Not a single wormy writhe from him then or ever again.

 

Sighing he holstered his blaster and knelt down to pick up the mark’s body. A paycheck, she knew. Worth several thousand credits. Corpse hauled up on his shoulder her father turned to her and gestured her over. Nodding she hurried along besides him and out the cantina door.

 

“You need to stop and think more when on the hunt,” he said gruffly in Mando’a, “You could have had the wrong the man.”

 

“But I didn't.”

 

“And you could have.”

 

“And you could be dead.”

 

He laughed at that and clapped her on the back. Yes. Yes, he could be dead right now but he wasn’t. The hunt had gone well.

 

\--

 

Turning the body in had been easy enough. The authorities weren’t happy about the dead Mandalorian but his death wasn’t on them. Charters stated as much. His life was entirely forfeited, if financially worthless, to the Talissens. Credits in hand the family headed home to have a talk. A long one. One where Jame continued to stand her ground where her firing was concerned. It was hard to argue for caution against a child so stubborn when she was right. He gave up soon enough, though Jame knew deep down that he would find another time to impress this lesson on her. A better one. One where he was right. Today though was the night of her first successful hunt. Lectures could wait.

 

This sort of occasion warranted a meal. One that took her father hours to prepare and which filled the home with heavy scent of curry. The home would reek of it for hours, possibly even days after. Which was fine with Jame. The spicy noodle dish was a favorite of hers. A favorite of her brother’s too.

 

He hadn't come up at all through the day. Not until after dinner as her father was reclining against a wall. She’d known he’d come up. She just hadn't been sure when. “If only Tor’ika had been here,” he said with a smile. A sad one, she’d come to know. Which she understood. Life without Torisen had proven to be “off”. There was no more fighting with him, but that lack left a hole.

 

“If he had you might be dead,” she said matter-of-factly. Not entirely serious, but that was how her humor functioned.

 

Her father frowned at her from her perch on her bed. “And why would that be?”

 

“We’d have fought about whether to shoot him or not,” she said before Jorin pounced on her. She gave a cry and fidgeted and pushed until the strill had accepted to just rest his head in her lap. Drooling as always, but at least not crushing her.

 

Tir’buir laughed at that, “Is that right? The two of you never could get along.” He watched her for a time as she pet the strill’s back silently. She couldn’t guess at why he was silent save that he was likely thinking. “You two’d find a way around it I’m sure,” he said. She looked at him straight on, waiting for an explanation. “You hardly ever waited for his approval,” her father said. The suspected answer. He wasn’t done though, “He was always sharp to people though. Like he could read their intentions simply being in the same room.”

 

“He was always afraid,” she said right away.

 

“Your brother had reason to be, much of the time,” he said while standing, “He could also quit being an atin’la brat when need be.” Her father walked over to the bed and sat down. Giving Jorin loving scratches to the neck he said, “I think he’d stop fighting just long enough to keep me alive, though.”

 

Jame frowned as she thought about that. The argument was sound, really. Torisen did have scarily good intuition and he did know how to shut up when it really mattered. If anything they might have caught that Mando out of armor earlier had he been around. He might not even had a chance to reach into his coat. “Do you still think it was brave of him to leave?” she asked, moving the subject. The thought came to mind often enough. The issue hadn’t been cleared up in her head yet, and times like these it came to mind in particular. It might be why her father had come to sit on the bed, come to think of it. Huh.

 

“How many times am I going to have to explain myself, verd’ika?” he asked while giving Jorin a final pat. The strill whined heavily but his complaints went ignored. Even by Jame who stared askingly at her father. He sighed, though not in frustration, and said, “Quite a few more it seems.” Tir’buir smiled and added, “It’s good that you ask though. Good Mando’ade don’t simply take the words from a superior without thought. They question them.”

 

Yes. They question them and they always refer back to the Resol’nare, those six binging actions for the Mando’ad. Quickly she said, “You always argue that his leaving is cleared by the fifth act.”

 

“And that's because it is. The fifth act states quite plainly that a Mando’ad’s duty is to protect the clan.”

 

“But he left,” she said harshly, too quick. Yes. He had left. Notably after she’d called him a coward. She had come to regret that statement heavily but he brother had still left. Off to live with the jedi instead of his family.

 

“And that is where the honor comes into play, Jaym’ika,” Tir’buir said while pulling her into a one armed hug, “He left to keep you safe from himself. The jetiise hunters too, I think.”

 

“They haven’t stopped pestering us,” she said as she grew accustomed to the hug, “Though at least they’re no longer trying to take me. Too old.”

 

“No but he made the attempt. He’s a brave boy our cyare Tor’ika,” her father said gripping her shoulder firmly, “He just didn’t think enough.”

 

Jame looked up at him, frowning. Not because of the potential insult that flew over her head. One that her brother would have noticed and complained of. No, she wasn’t entirely sure why she frowned. She was frustrated and looked to her father to solve that. Or at the least explain it. He was always good at that. An explanation didn’t come though nor the jab at her own sense of honor she half expected. It hadn’t once, not since the night Torisen couldn’t be found. Still, she’d always expected it and figured she would until she reached the pyre. Beyond it even. Instead of the scolding she seemingly craved her father asked, “How is he?”

 

That was a question that came up periodically. One she could always, always answer. “Well, Brother’s alive,” she said quietly as she stroked Jorin.

 

“Just alive?”

 

She shut her eyes and thought about him, her brother that she hadn’t seen in years. He was definitely still alive, definitely. Too alive though, far too alive. She felt a cold metallic chill run through her veins, coming to rest hard in her chest. It was a chill that numbed her legs yet told her to bolt. This feeling was so alien to her, but it was so very, very common to Torisen. Always was there an edge, though it rarely peaked this badly. It wasn’t unheard of though. “He’s afraid,” was her assessment, cold and clear.

 

“Afraid? Why so?”

 

This was the hard part, the request she couldn't’ always answer. Her brother’s feelings were one thing. His thoughts and sensations were another. Still she tried for her father, and herself too honestly. What was it that terrified him so completely? That seemingly broke him? It was tough. Tough to dig through the sheer panic of his feeling but an answer came. A name repeated over and over, like a fevered prayer. “Master Knorth,” she answered.

 

Her father said, “I see,” and nothing else. There was more to that, she could feel. Though what it was she couldn’t guess. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, unable to read that face however well she knew the one it belonged to. She got no more from him on this and knew that she wouldn’t tonight. No, instead of expanding or even telling her she would get no more her father started to sing. A soft chanting, the words to Torisen’s favorite of the many folk songs she’d learned from her father. Those Mando’a words that her brother likely no longer used to a song he was no longer allowed to enjoy if the rumors about the jedi were true fell thoughtfully. Which was a sad thought.

 

The whole thing was sad, honestly, yet a pit of brightness remained. A stubborn Mandalorian brightness. He was still alive, Torisen. Still alive if not here. Still the frustrating boy that had loved curry and a song far more martial than he ever seemed capable of being. He still lived, still fought even though it seemed his mind seemed a foe on par with Gerridon. And though she still questioned it, he still maintained his honor, and with that his soul. As she understood it anyway. She sat there, leaning against her father as he sang and she thought on that. And on him. Her brother who was so scared and alone at the moment, seemingly all the time as of late. Were he here he’d be curled up and sulking, and she go over and force him into a hug. A nice, strong hug while he sulked and moaned even more and as their father sang to chase away the demons in his head. And for a time the fear began to ebb. The edge died down and it seemed almost as though he were there, giving in and accepting the hug. Parsecs away he seemed only inches, not even that, leaning into a hug.

 

It was his hunt too this evening.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Tiingilar - An incredibly spicy Mandalorian casserole  
> Verd'ika - Little Warrior  
> Jaym'ika - Little Jame  
> Tir'buir - Papa Tirandys  
> Mando'a - Mandalorian language  
> Beskar - Mandalorian iron  
> Beskar'gam - Mandalorian armor  
> Kal side - "Knife side" the left hand plates of armor  
> Strill - A rank smelling six-legged Mandalorian hunting animal. Can glide using their extra flaps of skin.  
> Cyare'buir - Beloved father  
> b'Gerridon gehut'uune - Gerridon's scoundrels


End file.
